egan to
gather in the vicomte's eyes. Twice Victor stooped and his foil slid
under the vicomte's guard, touching him roughly on the thigh, But
Victor was fighting against the inevitable. Gradually the vicomte
broke down the defense, and again Victor's foil was wrested from his
grasp. The contest came to an end, with seven points for the vicomte
and two for the poet. The vicomte was loudly applauded, as was due a
famous swordsman and a hail-fellow.

[Illustration: "The Vicomte bowed jestingly."]

The Chevalier, who had followed each stroke with feverish eyes, sighed
with chagrin. There were three strokes he had taught Victor, and the
poet had not used one of them.

"Why did you let those opportunities pass?" he asked, petulantly.

"Some day I may need those strokes. The vicomte does not know that I
possess them." Victor smiled; then he frowned. "He is made of iron;
he is a stone wall; but he is not as brilliant and daring as you are,
Paul."

"Let us prolong the truce indefinitely," said the vicomte, later.

Victor bowed without speaking. The courtesy had something
non-committal in it, and it did not escape the keen eye of the vicomte.

"Monsieur, you are the most gallant poet I know," and the vicomte
saluted gravely.

They were becalmed the next day and the day following. The afternoon
of the second day promised to be dull and uninteresting, but grew
suddenly pregnant with possibilities when the Comte d'Herouville
addressed the vicomte with these words: "Monsieur, I should like to
speak to the Chevalier du Cevennes. Will you take upon yourself the
responsibility of conducting me to his cabin? It is not possible for
me to ask the courtesy of Monsieur de Saumaise. My patience becomes
strained at the sight of him."

"Certainly, Monsieur," answered the vicomte, pleasantly, though the
perpendicular line above his nose deepened. "I dare venture that the
matter concerns the coming engagement at Quebec, and you desire a
witness."

"Your surmise is correct. I do not wish to take advantage of him. I
wish to know if he believes he will be in condition."

"Follow me." The vicomte started toward the companionway.

The Chevalier lay in his bunk, in profound slumber. Breton was dozing
over his Rabelais. The clothes on the hooks moved but slightly. As
the two visitors entered, the lackey lifted his head and placed a
finger against his lips.

"He sleeps?" whispered the vicomte.

Breton nodded, eying